


Beneath a beast is always a beauty

by Elysian_X



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017), Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Manga Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29501163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elysian_X/pseuds/Elysian_X
Summary: This is an um beauty and the beast X Attack on titan fanfiction.Y/N dreams of adventures like the ones she reads about in her books-until, in a dark, magical castle, she becomes the captive of a fearsome beast. But life is not as horrible in the castle as Y/N imagines, and she soon learns that there is more to the beast than the eye first meets...Experience this tale of adventure and love as old as time, of looking beyond first appearances, and of the inner beauty in us all.
Relationships: Eren Yeager & Reader, Eren Yeager/Reader
Kudos: 24





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story so I'm really sorry if it's not that good.
> 
> Also yes this is very much based on the book and movie from 2017.  
> (Mostly the book though)

The Prince started frowning. He was facing a pair of heavy gilded doors, which were closed to him. He could hear music and laughter from the other side of the doors. The party, His party, had already begun. As guests toasted the night and walked around the ornate ballroom, Crystal clinked, their eyes undoubtedly widening as they took in hundreds of precious items lining the walls. Beautiful vases, detailed portraits of faraway places, rich tapestries, and solid-gold serving plates were just a few of the many items. And compared to the charm of the guests themselves, they all paled in comparison. Since the prince did not only invite anybody to his celebrations. He only invited those he found beautiful enough to be seen in his presence. They came from all over the globe, each as much on show as the room's inanimate objects.

The prince hardly acknowledged the servants standing in front of the closed doors as they bustled around him, nervously putting the final touches on his outfit. Nearby, his Majordomo hovered, pocket watch in hand. The young woman wasn't too fond of the prince's lack of respect for time. The Prince, in fact, had great pleasure in wasting the Majordomos. Next to the prince stood a maid, a feather brush in her hand. Gingerly, she painted a white line over the face of the young man. The paint glided with ease onto his smooth, perfect skin. When she had done, the maid pulled her hand back and cocked her head to the side as she took over her work.

It took hours to paint the mask, and it showed. It was exquisite. The pale curtain of paint had transformed the prince's face. No detail was spared, down to the faintest traces of gold feathers and blue highlights around his eyes and the dusting of red that sharpened his already striking cheekbones. Matching the new trend, two beauty marks had been perfectly positioned - one under his right eye and one above his crimson lips. The prince's emerald eyes shone coolly beneath the masquerade make-up.

Stepping back, the maid waited while a long jeweled coat was placed over the prince's shoulders by the head valet and then carefully checked it to ensure that not one jewel was out of place. He glanced at the maid, pleased, who then dusted the prince's wig with powder. Then they all bowed and waited for the prince to act with bated breath. The prince gave a single haughty wave, raising one gloved hand. A Footman appeared instantaneously. "More light." the prince ordered.

"Yes, your highness," the footman said, turning and reaching for the candelabrum placed nearby. He raised it so it illuminated the face of the prince. A small mirror was held by the Prince. It was silver, with blossoms on the back and a delicate handle. The mirror looked tiny and unbelievably fragile in his big hands. The prince, holding it up so that he could see his profile. Before staring straight at his reflection, he turned left, then right, then left again. Once, he nodded. And then the prince dropped the mirror, as though it were just a dishcloth.

As the mirror started to fall, the maid, who had almost fainted in relief at the prince's nod of approval, gasped. The Prince had the Majordomo open the doors to the ballroom, not even bothering to turn at the sound. The footman lunged forward as he entered, catching the mirror right before it hit the concrete. A collective sigh was issued by the servants as the doors swung shut behind the Prince. They'd be able to rest for the next few hours, out of sight of their cruel, spoiled, and unkind master.

The Prince made his way through the ballroom, oblivious of the thoughts of his servants, or perhaps conscious, but unconcerned. It was a white sea - at his invitation. It was hard for many of the guests to identify, except their masks. The outcome was enchanting. However, his mouth remained pulled down, and his solemn face in his castle did not suggest any joy in seeing such beauty. He never permitted anyone to see if he felt pain or joy. It gave him a feeling of mystery, which he immensely enjoyed. He heard the voices of young women as he passed, wondering excitedly if this was the night he had singled them out for a dance. His lips were tugged by a smug grin, but he hit it back and went on his way.

The prince entered his throne, moving through a circle of worthy maidens and their chaperones. It was elevated above the floor of the ballroom, giving him the best place to view the party from. The throne was, like everything else in the place, decadent in its style. The seat was covered by a massive majestic coat of arms, making it clear if it wasn't already, whose throne it was. The prince, standing next to it, turned and looked out at the ballroom. He saw a tiny animated man sit across the room at the grand harpsichord. The prince locked his eyes on the man who, in response, kindly flashed teeth that had seen better days. The prince was laughing, still nodding. This was Italy's premier maestro, after all. He and his wife, the beautiful diva who stood next to him, were known for their sound all over the world. Simply put, they were the finest. The prince wanted to have them at his ball because of that.

The maestro began to play with the prince's nod and the diva began to sing, her voice filling the ballroom. The prince strode to the floor and began dancing. His motions have been smooth and refined, honed from years of experience. Ladies danced to the prince in reverse around him, their dance equally well practiced and smooth. And they paled in comparison to him somehow. His aura was greater than that of the ballroom, his beauty more stunning, his coldness more chilling than the outside wind, and the rain howled.

The voice of the diva, Hange, had just swelled to an almost excruciating note when, abruptly, over the music and above the wind, the prince heard the unmistakable sound of someone knocking at the door leading out into the gardens. He raised his hand, and the music ended suddenly.

Again came the knock. No one shifted for a moment. And then all the windows, followed by the door, blew open. Rain billowed into the ballroom, and the candles in the sconces along the walls were caused by a powerful wind to flicker and go outside. The ballroom fell into darkness, and the prince heard that his guests were beginning to murmur nervously. The prince watched with a mixture of frustration and interest, in the remaining light from the candelabra on the tables, as a hooded figure entered through the open door. The stranger, gripping a gnarled cane with a trembling hand, was hunched over. The visitor moved into the warmth of the ballroom and out of the cold. The hooded figure sighed audibly as the door closed, obviously content to be somewhere It seemed to him - or her - to think it was safe and welcoming.

That could not have been more incorrect. The Prince felt rage well up within him, his initial shock fading. Grabbing a candlestick from a nearby table, he charged through the crowd, pushing people out of his way. His face was red by the time he arrived at the entrance, despite the layers of face paint. The uninvited visitor, he found, was an old beggar lady. The Prince, hunched as she was, towered over her.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked with a snarl.

The old women, with hope in their eyes, looked up at him. She said in little more than a whisper, holding out a single red rose, "I'm seeking shelter from the bitter storm outside." As if on cue, the wind rose to a pitch of fever, howling like a crazy beast. The prince appeared to be unmoved.

He did not care if the women were wet and cold. She was haggard, old, and a vagabond. And even worse, she ruined his ball. Another red-hot wave of rage washed over him as he saw the ugliness in the midst of all the elegance he had created so carefully and painstakingly.'Get out!' he sneered, his hand waving her off. "Get out now. You do not belong here." He gestured to the elegantly dressed guests around the room.

"Please," they begged the old woman. "I am only asking for shelter for one night. I will not even stay in the ballroom." The frown of the prince deepened. "Don't you see, old woman? This is a place of beauty," he said, his voice cold. "You are too ugly for my castle. For my world. For me." As the words of the prince ripped into her, the women seemed to shrink, but the prince did not seem to have any regret. He ordered the women to be escorted out, signaling to his Majordomo and the head footman.

"You should not be deceived by appearances," while the two servants approached her, the women said. "Beauty is found within..."

The prince threw his head back and crudely laughed. Say what you're going to do, hag. But we all know how beautiful it looks - and it's not you. Go now?"Say what you will, hag. But we all know what beautiful looks like - and it's not you. Now go?" A gasp from his guests, however, gave him a break. His eyes grew wide as he looked over his shoulder. The old people had something going to them. She appeared to be engulfed in a cocoon of sorts by her filthy cloak and hood until she all but vanished. Then a beam of light, blinding him, exploded.

The old beggar was gone when his vision cleared. The most beautiful woman the prince had ever seen was in her place. She soared above him, emitting a gloomy, blinding light, not unlike the sun. The prince immediately understood just what she was, for he had heard about stuff like that. She was an enchantress—a magical woman who put him to the test. And he had failed. The prince, dropping to his knees, keeping his hands up. 'Please,' he said, the one to beg now. "I'm sorry, enchantress. You are welcome in my castle for as long as you like."

The Enchantress was shaking her head. She had seen enough to know that it was a lifeless apology. In his heart, the prince had no kindness or love. Magic ran through her, then washed over the prince. The transformation began immediately. The prince's body was in pain. His back arched and he howled as his body began to grow. His jewelry popped off. His clothes were ripped. The surrounding guests were screaming as the sight of their host fled. The prince reached up, trying to grab a nearby man's hand, but to his horror, he discovered that his own hand had grown somewhat larger. The man jumped away and, along with the others, made his escape.

In the midst of it all. The Enchantress calmly watched her punishment come into effect. Soon the ballroom was empty, except for the staff, the entertainers, and the lone dog that belonged to Hange the Diva. As they watched in shock, the prince's transformation was complete. Where once a handsome man had been towered now, a hideous titan cowered. The rest of the castle and its inhabitants did not look the same anymore. They, too, have changed...

The days bled into years, and the world forgot the princes and their servants until the enchanted castle was eventually isolated and locked in eternal winter. The Enchantress had wiped from the minds of the people who loved them all the memory of the castle and those who were in it. But one last bit of hope remained: the rose given to the prince was truly an enchanted rose. The spell would be broken if the prince could learn to love someone and receive the love of that person in return by the time the last petal fell on his 25th birthday. If not, he will be doomed to forever remain a titan.


	2. Y/N

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally meet our lovely Y/N

Y/N unlocked her cottage's front door. She sighed, taking in the picture-perfect pastoral scene before her. The morning started the same way every day in the small village of Villeneuve. At least it had been there for as long as Y/N had existed.

Depending on the season, the sun would slowly rise over the horizon, its rays turning the fields that surrounded the village greener or gold or white. Then, when they touched the whitewashed sides or Y/N's cottage, which stood right on the outskirts of the village, the rays would pass along before eventually illuminating the thatched roofs of the homes and stores that made up the village itself. The villagers themselves will be stirring by the time that happened, preparing for the day. Men would sit down inside their homes for their morning meals while the women prepared the kids or finished stirring the porridge. It would hush the village, as though they were still shaking off sleep.

The church's clock will strike eight times. And the village will come alive just like that. Hundreds of times, Y/N had seen it happen. Yet she was always amazed this morning, like every morning, as she stared down at the little town, full of the same people who went about their daily routines. She focused her warm eyes on them, sighing at the worldliness of it all. She also wondered what it was like to wake up the other way around. Y/N's head shook. This was life as she had known it, the life she had shared with her dad when they had moved to Paris several years ago. It did her no good to wonder or wish. It was a time to reflect on the past or what-ifs. She had things to do, errands to run, and a new adventure to explore - she looked down at the book clutched in her lap. Straightening her shoulders, Y/N pulled the door closed behind her and set off for the area.

Within minutes, Y/N was making her way down the cobblestone main street. She nodded distantly as she walked by other villagers. Though she had lived most of her life in the village, she always felt like an outsider there. It was remote and insular, like so many in the French countryside. There were born more of the citizens Y/N passes on her way and most will spend the rest of their lives there. The village, to them, was the universe. And outsiders have been looked at with caution.

Y/N wasn't completely sure that she wouldn't be regarded as an outsider even though she had been born in the village. She didn't even have anything in common with most people. And if she was honest, she seemed to love reading more than idle little chat - traveling to distant lands with wonderful adventures, even if only on the pages of her favorite books.

She listened, winding her way through the street while the rest of the villagers welcomed each other. She felt a pang of isolation watching each other meet one another. With the monotony of their morning routines, they all seemed perfectly happy. There seemed to be no one who shared her passion for something new and exciting, for something more. With the delicious scent of freshly baked bread wafting through the air, Y/N entered the baker's stand. The harried baker kept a tray of freshly baked baguettes, as always, and muttered to himself. "Bonjour," said Y/N. The guy absently nodded.

"One baguette..." Y/N looked at the row of jars filled with rich red jelly. She said, "And this, too S'il Vous plait," picking one up and slipping it into her apron pocket. She went on to finish her next errand.

When she stopped, she was just about to turn a corner. Next to her mule, Ymir, the female potter, stood looking lost. The cart attached to the mule was freshly filled with pottery. Ymir saw Y/N watching her and smirked, looking up.

"Morning Y/N," she said with a boyish, smooth voice. She was peering into his cart, a look of perplexity on her face. Y/N said in return, "Good morning, Ymir"

"Have you lost something?"

"What? No, I just feel like I've forgotten something," she said sadly, the girl looking at Y/N. She shrugged then. "Well, I'll remember later." The mule had none of this. He was trying to stick his nose in Y/N's pocket, searching for the apple she had hidden in the pocket, just in case she had run into Ymir. Giving a hard yank to the creature, Ymir managed to draw the mule's attention away from Y/N. But she did succeed in knocking the cart off balance as well.

Grasping, Y/N reached out and, just before it fell, grabbed one of the lovely clay pots. Then she gave the mule the apple and turned to leave, satisfied that nothing else would fall. "Where are you off to?" asked Ymir. She glanced over her shoulder again. She said, smiling and holding up the well-worn volume, "To return this book to Dot Pyxis," " It's about two lovers in fair Verona - "

"Are either of them able to get me to remember what I can't?" interrupted Ymir. Bell's head shook. "no" 

"Then I don't care," she said.

Sighed Belle. Ymir's reaction did not surprise her. It was the same response that she got whenever she discussed books. Hey, or art. Or flying. Oh, or Paris. Anything except talking about the villagers or the villagers was met with ignorance, or, worse, scorn.

Just once thought Y/N would like to meet someone who wanted to know the story of Romeo and Juliet as she patted Ymir's mule on the nose and gave the potter a wave good-bye. Or any story, for that matter. She began to walk faster, more excited than ever to hit up Dot Pyxis, to get a new book, and to return home. At least she had no one to annoy her or criticize her in her own cottage. In her novels, she might just get lost and imagine the world beyond the provincial city.

Y/N did not even note the attention she was receiving, immersed in thoughts of what new bookish delights could be waiting for her at Dot Pyxis's. Nor did she pay much heed to the remarks hidden by the barley that her presence ignited. Then, she'd heard them all. It wasn't the first time that she had gone to the school and heard the young boys call her strange. Whenever they saw Y/N, the washerwomen, their hands pruned and coated in suds, often loved to whisper among themselves. They'd say, "Funny Girl," Another favorite was "Doesn't fit in". This was the worst crime of all for the gossipy people. It never occurred to them that Y/N decided not to be a member of the audience.

Finally, Y/N arrived at her destination - the vestry of the church. She breathed a sigh of relief, pushing open the doors, as the peace and serenity of the building enveloped her. The hubbub and the noise from outside faded away, and Y/N felt calm for the first time that morning. A kind, elderly man in a long black robe looked up from his drink when he heard her enter. The man was tall and slender, and his eyes were soft, crinkling as he smiled at Y/N.

"Good morning, Y/N," she was greeted by Dot Pyxis."So where did you run off to this week?"

In return, Y/N smiled. The well-read priest was one of the few people that Y/N felt she could relate to in the entire village. Her father was the other guy. "Two cities in northern Italy," she responded, her tone increasingly animated. She kept the book out as if showing Dot Pyxis would help bring the tale to life in its entirety. "You should have seen it. The castles. The art. There was even a masquerade ball."

Reaching out, Dot Pyxis gingerly took the book from Y/N. He nodded as she kept telling him the story of Romeo and Juliet even though he had never heard it before, even though both of them knew that he had read the story himself at least a dozen times. It was part of a routine for them. Y/N took a deep breath of happiness when she was done. "Have you got any new places to go?" she asked hopefully. She turned, her eyes staying on the city library.

Calling it a library was, to say the least, an exaggeration. Two thin, dusty bookshelves were lined with a few dozen books. Y/N, now scanning the shelves, saw the same well-worn spines and fading titles. It was unusual for anything in the inventory to be added.

"I'm afraid not my dear" he responded. Y/N's eyes, considering the fact that she had expected this, reflected her disappointment. But any of the old ones you like, you may re-read, "But you may re-read any of the old ones that you like,"

Y/N nodded and shifted to the shelves in front. The family books, most of which she had read at least twice, were rubbed with her fingertips. Yet, better than to whine, she realized. She looked back at the older man, picking one up. "Thank you," she said quietly. "Your library makes our small corner of the world almost feel big."

Book in hand, Y/N left the vestry and made her way back to the main street of the village. She opened the first page and planted her nose squarely in the book, shutting all else out. She ducked her tray of products under the cheese vendor and swooped out of the way of the two florists, their arms filled with giant bouquets, all while losing her spot on the page.

Although she was frustrated that she could not find anything new, one of her favorites was this novel. It had everything a good story was supposed to have—far-off lands, a charming prince, a powerful heroine who found love—but not right away, obviously.

CLANG! CLANG!

Y/N, looking at the noisy noise, slowly ripped herself away from the journal. She saw, looking up, that the noise came from Ymir Fritz. If the town felt Y/N was strange, the elderly women were considered an outcast. She did not have a house or a family and spent her days begging for food and spare change. Y/N always had a soft spot for her, seeing beyond the dirt that coated her cheeks and the rags she wore. She felt that Ymir Fritz deserved as much care and attention as anyone else and as much respect as anyone else, and she hated seeing Ymir Fritz overlooked by other villagers, or, worse, she insulted each other. Every time she tells Ymir Fritz, Y/N tries to give her something.

"Good morning, Ymir" she said, smiling softly, " I have no money, but here..." she reached into her pocket, pulled out a baguette she had picked up for the elderly women in particular, and handed it over.

Ymir Fritz gratefully smiles. The smile turned playful "No jam?" Y/N already had her hand in her pocket in anticipation of the answer and produced the jam jar "Bless you," the women said. Lowering her head, she tore a chunk off the baguette, momentarily missing Y/N's presence. Y/N laughed. In some odd way, she felt a kinship with the women. It was actually Ymir Fritz who wanted to have food and be left alone. With her novels, Y/N was the same way. She could not bear unwelcome attention as lonley as she could be at times - despised it, in fact.


	3. Jean

Jean enjoyed being attentive. In reality, he lived for it. Ever since he was a little boy, he has been looking for ways to make himself the center of focus. Before anyone else his age, he walked. He spoke first, becoming taller and more stunning than anyone else as he grew older. Indeed, he was good-looking with his long hair, pearly eyes, and wide shoulders. The girls loved him, and the boys adored him. And Jean? He was soaking up his attention and reveling in it.

But there was a limit to just how much publicity Jean could get in a small village when he grew up. And he was irked by it. Then France became interested in the war, to his great delight. Jean had seen the war not as an opportunity to protect his country, but as an opportunity to wear a dashing uniform and woo the ladies, which he had done with gusto when, two years ago, he became a certified war hero.

Jean still wore his uniform.

And the most handsome and manliest man in the entire village still believed in himself. He was now sitting astride his big black stallion, gazing down from the promontory overlooking his village. Beneath a sparkling gold breastplate, his chest was bulging. As he pulled back on the horse's reins, the muscles on his arm rippled, causing the animal to dance nervously. His trusty musket and the spoils of his hunt had been tied to his saddle. As normal, he had an afternoon of success in the woods.

"You never missed a shot, Jean." said the man next to him.

If Jean was the lion of a man that he had been called by many over the years, the man next to him was a house cat. Marco had been everything that Jean hadn't been. Where Jean was tall and muscled, Marco was slim and medium in height. Where Jean was all smooth, practiced motions and well-proven lines, Marco had cuts over his right side and an incoherent babble was stumbling. And where Jean was known to everyone as being worshipped, Marco was a footnote to barley in the minds of the peasants. Still, for the freckled boy, Jean had a soft spot - mostly because when they were younger, Marco and he had been together.

"You're the greatest hunter in the village," Marco went on. Jean gave him a look and corrected himself quickly. "I mean...the world."As if posing for an unknown artist, Jean puffed out his already puffed-out chest even further and lifted his head in the air. "Thank you, Marco," he said. He stared down at the 'caught' system - a handful of vegetables - and raised an eyebrow. "You didn't do too badly yourself," he said insincerely.

"One of these days I'm going to learn to shoot like you," Marco said, indifferent to Jean's ridicule. "And talk like you. And be tall and handsome like you." "Come now, old friend," said Jean, pretending that he did not enjoy every compliment. "Reflected glory is just as good as the real thing."

Marco, puzzled, cocked his head. When he saw Jean sitting up straighter in his saddle, he opened his mouth talking but stopped. The eyes of the blonde-haired man narrowed as if he were a wolf spotting his prey. Marco, following Jean's gaze, saw what had caught the attention of his mate. Below, through the village square, Y/N was making her way. Her bright blue dress was flattering against her H/C hair. Marco could see her cheeks getting flush, even from such a distance.

"Look at her, Marco." continued Jean. "My future wife. Y/N is the most beautiful girl in the village. That makes her the best."

"But she's so well-read, and you're so...." Marco picked himself up. The one thing he prided himself on never doing - offending Jean - he had almost just done. Quickly, he finished his sentence before Jean could think about the delay. "Athletically inclined."

" I know," he agreed, nodding to Jean. "Y/N can be as argumentative as she is beautiful."

"Exactly!" said Marco, pleased to see a friend of his interacting with some sense." why do you want to marry her anyway? There's us Le Duo!" The freckled boy tried in vain to get the village to name the pair Le Duo when they had first returned home from the war - because of course, Marco had gone to fight with his friend, explanation for his scars. But it didn't get trapped. Typically it was Jean and "The other one" Or more than that, just Jean.

Jean Barley, immersed in himself, registered neediness in the voice of his mate. "Ever since the war, I've been missing something," he said, still looking at Y/N. "And she's the only girl I've met who gives me that sense of..." stumbled Jean, trying to find the right words. "je ne sais quoi?" Marco finished for him.

Jean turned around and looked at him, his face confused."I don't know what that means," he said. "I just know that from the moment I saw her, I knew I would marry Y/N. And I don't want to stand here any longer, wasting time." Kicking his horse into a gallop, he moved for the village, returning from war with the image of a hero. Marco spurred the sides of his horse behind him. The animal pinned its ears back and broke right into... a steady trot.

Moments before the horses burst through the village gates, Y/N heard the sound of a hoofbeat. One, in particular, burst through; the other kind of meandered. Y/N recognized the big black stallion immediately, and the man astride its back. They were Jean. His ever-present sidekick behind him, Marco, also struggled to keep up with his sluggish horse. She stifled a groan and quickly ducked behind the seller of cheese, hoping she would not be heard by Jean.

She had one too many run-ins with the hero of the war. It went the same way each time. While he boasted of his new hunt or told her a tale of his glory days in the battle, Jean would preen like a peacock. Y/N will try to resist rolling her eyes. The villagers would swoon and whisper about how lucky Y/N was, especially the female ones. And Y/N will eventually walk away feeling the need to bathe. She knew Jean was considered by many to be quite the catch - well, all if she was being honest. But she just wasn't able to stand the guy. Everything was beastly about him.

She was wondering, as now, as she peeked out from behind the fromagerie. Jean was squeezing his hand with flowers and searching the crowd like a wild animal. Y/N groaned when his eyes locked on hers, and he began to pound through the villagers in order to reach her. She turned and hurried off in the opposite direction, trying to distract him using the other villagers.

Just as Jean was about to meet her, unbeknownst to Y/N. Ymir Fritz stepped in front of him and lifted her cup. Jean stared down at the homeless woman and curved his lips. Then he saw the shiny cup of metal. "Thank you, Hag." As Jean checked out his reflection at the bottom of the cup, coins poured to the deck. He shoved the cup back to Ymir Fritz, pleased with what he saw, and moved past her.

He said, "Good morning, Y/N," and ran to a stop in front of her. She took a backward step. "Wonderful book you have there." Y/N lifted an eyebrow. "You've read it?"

"I did a lot of things in the army," He responded vaguely. A laugh swallowed Y/N. It took him less than a minute to bring the army up. It must be a record, she thought

Jean preserved the flowers with a flourish. "For your dinner table," he explained. "Shall I join you tonight?" "Sorry," She inched around him in search of the shortest escape path. "Not tonight." 

"Busy?" Asked Jean.

"No," She heard Jean twist her words behind her to the crowd of villagers who paused to watch the couple. It was obvious that the hunter had perceived her "No" as part of a difficult-to-get game.

She was not interested in what Jean said, or how he made himself feel better. She knew the truth: Jean was no bigger than a small provincial town, in spite of his large size. And there was no way she'd ever share with him her dinner table. No, not ever.

Quickening her speed, Y/N made her way out of the center of the village. She returned to her cottage minutes later. It was a cozy little home, with a small stairway leading up to the front door and large windows with pictures. For her father, there was also a nice garden out front and a detached basement workshop.

A music box's gentle tinkling melody drifted up from the closed hatch doors. Despite the early hour, her father had been already working.

Y/N opened the hatch, careful to not disturb him, and tiptoed down the stairs. Through a tiny window, sunlight streamed, illuminating Erwin as he sat hunched over his workbench. There were bits and pieces of his designs scattered about. On different shelves and tables were small canisters, bits of metal, knives, and fragile wires. Others were newer, with bright and polished walls, while others had accumulated a thin layer of dust awaiting Erwin's attention to turn to them again. But he was focused solely on this one music box in front of him for the time being. He tinkered with one of the gears while Y/N watched. It was beautifully drawn on the inside, portraying an artist in a tiny apartment in Paris. The artist was drawing a portrait of his wife. She was cradling a little baby and holding in her other hand a rattle resembling a red rose.

Y/N took another step into the room. Erwin Looke dupes the tone distractingly. And when he saw his daughter, he smiled. His eyes were bright and concentrated, as blue as the sea. As he straightened his shoulders, he grew taller than he was, becoming more stunning in his old age. "Yeah, all right, Belle, you're back," he said, turning to the music box again. "Where were you?"

"Well, first I went to Saint Petersburg to see the Tsar, then I went fishing in the bottom of the well," She began, smiling as he absently nodded. He did not see or hear anything else while he was working. Understood Y/N. She was the same way when a book enthralled her.

"Hmmm, yes," Erwin said. "Can you pass me the-"

Before he could finish Y/N was handing him the screwdriver. 

"And the -"

This time she held out a small hammer.

"No, I don't need..." As a spring popped off, his voice trailed off. "Well, yes, I guess I do."

Y/N crossed over to a shelf full of metal boxes as he went back to tinkering. As she walked down the row, her long, thin fingers trailed across the top of them. Each had a particular design from when her father was there, a decisive and old army emblem. She knew it had been kept by her father for old memories. Erwin never said anything, but Y/N understood that those days were missed outside the small village. She thought of the little village and the gossiping people who lived in it. Softly, in order not to startle him. "Papa, Do you think I'm odd?" Y/N asked.

He frowned, "Do I think you're odd?" and repeated, "Where did you get an idea like that?"

"Oh., I don't know...people talk." Y/N shrugged.

"There are worse things than being spoken about," said Erwin, his tone becoming sad. "This village may be small-minded, Y/N, but it's also safe."

To protest, Y/N opened her mouth. That was the line that was used all the time by her father. It came from a good place, she understood, but she just didn't understand why he wanted to stay in their little town.

Seeing that his typical explanation was not going to work today on Y/N, Erwin changed course quickly. "Back in Paris," he said, "I knew a girl who was so different, so daring, so ahead of her time that people mocked her until the day they found themselves imitating her. Do you know what she used to say?"

Y/N shook her head.

"She used to say, 'The people who talk behind your back are destined to stay there.'" Erwin paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. Then he added " Behind your back. Never to catch up."

Y/N nodded slowly. She loved the small stories of Erwin that served as life lessons. In reality, she had assumed that she had heard them all already. This was a different one, though. Her father tried to reassure her that it was okay to stand out, to stand apart from the crowd. Once again, she nodded, "I understand," she said softly.

"That woman was your mother," Erwin added, smiling and reaching out to take his daughter's hand. He gave it a squeeze.

Y/N smiled back, filling her heart with warmth and sorrow. She had no memory of her mother. The tales her father told her were all she had. But it was hard for Erwin to recall, so he gave her only fragments - like this one - from time to time. "Tell me more about her, Please. One more thing."

The hand of the older man hovered over the box of music. His fingers closed slowly, and he gazed back at his daughter. "your mother was...fearless," he said, "To know anything more, you just have to look in the mirror." He picked up a pair of tweezers and put the last gear in the music box. It snapped into place with a click.

"It's beautiful," Y/N said as music played from the small box.

Her eyes fell on the portrait hanging above her father's workshop as she looked up. It displayed the same picture on the inside of the music box that was portrayed. The woman holding the baby and the rose rattle was her mother. And the kid was Y/N. It was the only picture Y/N knew of her mother. "I think she would have loved it."

But she wasn't heard by her father. He was lost in the world of his little creations once more. Y/N knew that it would just sadden him to talk more about her mother. He turned around and went back upstairs. She loved her father so much, and she didn't want to make him feel any more pain or heartbreak than he'd ever had in his life. But sometimes she wondered if there was a possibility that something would happen to put her life on a course different from the one on which she and her dad were now so firmly planted.


	4. Laundry

As he drove his own cart away from their cottage, Y/N waved to her father. Miche, their gentle draught-horse giant, flung his head into the air, and the wicked were happily ready for the adventure.

Erwin was going to the major market a few towns away to sell his music boxes, as he did every year. During the long trip, the cart was filled with every piece he had worked on for the past year, carefully packed and stored to protect them. And Erwin was leaving Y/N behind, as he did each year. It was for her own protection, Always told her. Or, when he was reluctant to leave the cottage unattended, often he would tell her. Either way, it was the same each time. He packed the wagon, Y/N made sure that Miche was ready for the journey, and then they went through their good-bye routine. Belle would put Erwin's tie in his shirt, and Erwin would ask Belle "What would you like from the market?"

"A rose like the one in the painting," which she always replied with.

Erwin will then leave after a short embrace and pat for Miche.

This year had been no exception. Y/N sighed as her father and Miche vanished from view. As she walked back into the cottage, she pondered, "Now what?" She was confident in her abilities to read, clean, and work in the garden. But, for some reason, none of those things piqued her interest right now. She felt compelled to do more. Something to distract her from her own thoughts, which was beginning to fill with anxiety about her father's journey, as they always did at this time of year. She raised an eyebrow when she saw the big laundry pile. She didn't like doing laundry. The washerwomen were often gathered around the fountain, gossiping and chatting. They'd grow louder, their laughter colder, as she approached, and this would last for the excruciating amount of time it took to get the clothes clean. It would be nice if it didn't take so long...

She took a glance around the room and noticed one of Miche's leather harnesses as well as the apple basket. She suddenly had an idea. She dashed into the barn, gathered what she wanted, and ran into the village, smiling. When she arrived, the only person at the fountain was a little girl with sad eyes, much to her delight. Y/N had seen the young lady before in the village. Y/N was sure she was mostly alone, and based on the way she hunched her shoulders and avoided eye contact, she didn't seem to have many friends. As Y/N stood there watching, the girl dipped a shirt into the fountain, pulled it out, and started scrubbing it.

Y/N started to remove her other supplies from her apron pockets as she carried her pile to the fountain's edge. She approached Ymir the potter's mule, who stood with its head down, lips twitching, and one hind foot cocked by the tavern's entrance. Y/N tied the other end of Miche's harness to a small wooden barrel after securing one end to the mule's halter. She then stuffed all of the clothes and a few soap chips into the barrel, lifted it, and tossed it into the fountain. The barrel sat on its side, slowly filling with water. Y/N took the lead and crossed in front of the mule. She walked backward, holding one of the apples enticingly. The mule trailed behind. She put it on a path that circles the fountain.

"What are you doing?"

Y/n saw the girl that was watching her, confusion flowing throughout her face.

"The laundry," Y/N answered matter-of-factly. She indicated the barrel. The mule was dragging it through the water, churning up the liquid and leaving a thick layer of suds on the clothes. Y/N sat down to read after she finished her work and took her book from one of her apron pockets. Belle grinned as she looked at the young girl, who was staring at the book with a desire that bordered on hunger. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Y/N couldn't tell you how long she'd been waiting at the fountain. The water was less sudsy and the clothes were cleaner, but Ymir's mule was always doing laps. But none of this was noticed by Belle. She was too preoccupied with the girl who sat next to her. She had spent the morning and most of the afternoon attempting to teach her how to learn. Y/N was aware that the village elders frowned on girls reading, which was why the local school was only for boys, but she disagreed with that narrow-minded viewpoint. So when the girl sat on the fountain wall and asked if Y/N would tell her a tale in a barely audible voice, Y/N was ecstatic to be able to share the joy of reading with her. It was terrifying to think of living in this village and not being able to escape by books. And the girl was living that life on a daily basis. Y/N was adamant about changing that.

They had come a long way. The girl was much further along than Y/N would have thought possible. She just needed practice.

"T...th...the blue bi-ir-ird flies..." The young lady stammered. "Over the dark wood," Belle continued. A shout from nearby interrupted her as she opened her mouth to read the next line. Looking up, Belle noticed the headmaster's slim, cruel face in the school's doorway. She let out a sigh. Their time of peace and quiet seemed to be coming to an end.

" What on earth are you doing?" He shouted, storming over to the pair. A line of boys following closely behind him, their matching uniforms making them look like a small army. "Girls don't read." 

He shouts quickly gathering the attention of more people. Ymir the potter, the fishmonger, and even Dot Pixis and Ymir Fritz all appeared. They awaited Belle's next words or actions.

YN met the headmaster's enraged gaze by raising one perfectly arched brow. They stayed that way for a brief moment, their gazes locked. Then Y/N grinned as she returned her gaze to the young lady. She said, "Try again."

The villagers who had gathered erupted as if she had lit a powder keg of explosives. Some, such as the fishmonger and the headmaster, were appalled by Y/N's boldness. Others, such as Dot Pixis and the potter Ymir, encouraged her. Y/N sat unfazed in the midst of it all. 'Let the headmaster scream and shout and throw a fit,' she thought ' He should be concerned with his students' education'

A shot rang out suddenly, over the villagers' increasingly loud shouts.

Y/N looked up, startled. She then sighed and rolled her eyes. With one hand on his hip and the other raising his hunting rifle to the sky, Jean stood, or rather posed. The tip of the recently fired weapon also emitted smoke. Marco was working his way through the villagers, ever the aide. "Make a lane, people" He shouted. "Come on, don't make me say it twice."

Jean, who was lurking behind him, lowered the gun and handed it over to Marco. He then took a peek around the crowd. "This is not how good people act," He said, shaking his head. " Everyone... go home. Now!" If the gun didn't get everyone's attention, the man's voice was surely able to do it. The villagers started to scatter, mumbling to one another. The space around the fountain was nearly empty in a matter of seconds. Y/N, Jean, and Marco were the only ones remaining. Even the young girl had bolted, frightened by the war hero's yell.

Y/n was torn between laughing and crying. Jean may have thought he'd come to her aid, but all he'd done was give the other villagers what they wanted and put an end to her reading lesson. Not to mention annoy her.

Y/N stood up and stepped away from the fountain. Jean walked beside her in lockstep. As they walked towards Y/N's cottage, the big man was quiet for a few glorious moments, and Y/N wondered if she had been mistaken. Maybe Jean wouldn't make this all about him.

"I was pretty cool back there, wasn't I?" he said "Like being in command during the war..."

"That was Two years ago, Jean" Y/n Pointed out. "Sad, I know," Jean said, clearly missing Y/N's tone. He started slowing his steps, and he grew a serious expression on his face. "Y/N, everyone thinks I have it all, but there is something I'm missing..."

Trying to get away, Y/n quickened her pace "I can't imagine..."

"A wife." Jean went on. His Voice was much too familiar with the word. "You're not really living until you see yourself reflected in someone else's eyes."

'Oh, no' Y/n thought. This was exactly what she had said would happen. She also wanted to put an end to any more discussion about wives. "And you can see yourself in mine?" She asked, trying to make her tone as disinterested and removed as possible.

Jean nodded. "We're both fighters," he said, clearly referring to the incident at the fountain.

"All I wanted was to teach a child to read," Y/N pestered. 'Not be a fighter', she added silently.

"The only children you should concern yourself with are...your own."

Jean's words hit Y/N like a freight train. 'As if he knows what I want', she thought 'How dare he make assumptions?" she clenched her fists at her sides and tried to keep her voice steady as she said, "I'm not ready to have children."

"Maybe you haven't met the right man," Jean responded.

"It's a small village," Y/N shot back. "I've met them all."

"Maybe you should take a second look..."

Y/N shook her head. "I have."

"Maybe you should take a third look," Jean went on obviously not taking the hint. "Some of us have changed." 

'Enough!' Belle wanted to shout. Jean could change into Flynn rider and she into Ariel and she still wouldn't want to be with him. Ever, never, ever, ever. "Look," she finally said. "We could never make each other happy. No one can change that much." She accelerated her speed even further in an attempt to get away from Jean. This discussion had dragged on for too long. She could see her cottage's front door ahead of her as a beacon of protection.

Jean, on the other hand, was not having it. His long legs filled the space between them quickly, his boots crushing the vegetables in the small garden. "Y/N, do you know what happens to those after their father dies?" he asked, the earlier softness of his voice gone. When Y/N didn't answer, he went on. " They beg for change in the street." He waved at Ymir Fritz, who was wandering past. "This is our world Y/N/ For simple folk like us, it doesn't get any better."

"I may be a mere girl," Y/n said, climbing the steps with Jean close on her heels. She came to a stop and turned to look into his eyes. "But I'm not simple, I'm sorry, but I will never marry you, Jean."

She forced her way inside and shut the door tightly behind her, stopping the hunter from following. She knew slamming a door in his face couldn't have been pleasant, but he'd left her with no choice. Jean's unwelcome advances will hopefully come to an end at this stage.

'Someday...' She thought as she slumped against the door, 'Someday, I'll meet someone who will understand me and accept me for who I am. I'll show them all one day. I want so much more than anyone in this town could possibly comprehend.'


End file.
